Friday 15th August 2025
This is a lengthy one (that's what she said!) so apologies, pour yourself a stiff drink. Some BRAPA days really do defy all logic.
A pile of fresh sick in the street outside heralded one of the WORST Wetherspoons I've been to in years. Rndom locals kept telling me that Bicester was far posher than Banbury. Not on this evidence. The ageing barwoman looks harangued and harassed before we even start. A lady not even standing at the bar shouts her breakfast order. She doesn't even have a table number. "I was trying to speed things up" she claims (I'm still trying to work out her reasoning). Our barwoman emits a pained squeak, like a dormouse with its tail stuck in the coffee machine. Our table-less lady has the temerity to sidle up to me and say "I feel so sorry for her, really overworked, she's under a lot of pressure today, only member of staff on". A gormless dork sneaks in on my right. He too has noticed our pressurised host. "Bad day?" he asks her. "You could say that" she replies, bottom lip trembling. She asks who's next between the two of us. Obviously me. But he opens his stupid mouth. "Errrm , excuse me, I was obviously first!" I tell the nobber. "Oh, I thought she was talking to me" whines gormless dork. "OH, ONE OF YOU TWO, PLEASE!" wails our increasingly desperate publican hearing our exchange. Since Jaipur's recent disappearance from 'Spoons, they've weirdly decimated their beer range brutally. dispensing with local guests altogether. Well, in Oxfordshire and Warwickshire at least. Here, Theakston's Old Peculiar is the only thing tickling my fancy. A bold choice for 11am, but I desperately need a pint of it suddenly. Sadly, our hostess starts pulling the wrong beer. Apologetically, I let her know. Final straw. She flings the glass containing a sliver of the wrong beer across the bar into a sink/tray thing. Tears in her eyes, she turns away, taking a few deep breaths and composes herself before the final pull. This is awful. Defiant hatred in her eyes, I decide against using a 50p off voucher on this occasion! Towards the front of the pub, a sliver of 8.5/10 carpet cheers me. What I hadn't realised that this takes me straight into local scrotes corner. Steptoe & Son meets George Formby's Chinese Laundry Blues. A strange plastic Gooner joins me, despite having tonnes of tables to aim at. Obviously his regular spot. He doesn't utter a word, just peers menacingly over the menus at me for the entire time. There's some spilt milk on our table too, but I'm not crying over it, quite. Occasionally, one of his pals says hello from another table. One dribbles on the floor. I wish I'd picked a carpetless area at the back of the pub now, but at the same time refuse to give these goons the satisfaction of moving. At least the Old Peculiar is ok. Not Pot & Glass Egglescliffe levels of brilliance, more York's Black Swan 'absolutely fine'. A gorgeous medieval pub, but not one you'd want considered for GBG inclusion on current beer quality. I make quick work of it, but only cos I can't wait to escape this utter hellhole. Penny Black, Bicester (3289 / 5775), I'll forever remember you, for all the wrong reasons.
Studiously stepping back over the pile of sick, drying out nicely in the morning sun, I find the covered piss smelling street masquerading at Bicester bus station. I'm sure on the adverts, Bicester is a Christmas wonderland of magical shopping heaven 365 days a year. I wasn't seeing it.
Perilously close to the Bucks border, we find pub two. A noon opener, which even on a Friday wasn't indicative of my outer-Bicester ticks.
Two thirds of the Bull Inn, Launton (3290 / 5776) looks a beauty, though I've been burnt once too often this year by thatched pubs opening up to reveal drab dining dross. But not here. This has retained boozery credentials, pool table, bookcases, deep oozing 8/10 carpet, accentuated by a healthy gaggle of generous bar blockers bringing the 'bantz' and, in a shock twist, a modicum of spatial awareness. Best of all is the barmaid, what a bright positive human being. After that last experience, she was manna from heaven. I felt like I'd come home! But today was destined to be 'one of those days' and Euston, we have a problem. No real ale. FFS. Turns out the owners are fuckingham off to Buckingham in the coming days to run a pub there. I thought there was a 'so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, let's get pissed before the beer runs out' happy desperation in the air. Greene King are 'hopeful' of finding new owners. They'd better, this'd be a sad loss. She asks a dude who ain't really concentrating what the nearest they have is to real ale. "Errrm, well Guinness or Stowford Press I guess .... Stella is the other only we have on unless ya want a can or bottle!" Some dude on TwXtter/BlueSky had mentioned me drinking a cider last night, so Stowford it is. Warm day already, as we know from our old mate Mr PileofSick, so it is a refreshing juicy drop but way too thin and fizzy. Our host comes over to chat further. Good place. And now is the time for today's Uber cheat .....
Yes, my only other pre 3pm opener is at the most northerly today, has about two buses a day, and shuts at 3pm, so my plan is to get there, relax, and then start the gradual long walk back south via a few pubs.
Our main man Remus, obviously missing brother Romulus, isn't too sure where to drop me, but when we see Fox Lane, I say "oooh pub is called the Fox, can't be far, drop me here" and sure enough I find it hiding around the back. Bet if it'd been a Wolf, he'd have been fine.
As blatant Oxfordshire dining pubs go, Fox, Souldern (3291 / 5777) is impressive. The tranquil location helps hugely, I don't think I've 'heard' such peace and stillness at a BRAPA pub since Daddy BRAPA drove me to the Admiral Rodney in Criggion Mid Wales 2016. Inside it is shamelessly foodie and with a bloody awkward shape which made sitting anywhere difficult. What saves it is the young couple behind the bar, taking me under their wing despite the dining rush, desperate to make sure I'm comfy and settled! And the pub smells like my Grandma's old Bridlington flat at 57A, not a smell I've smelt since the early 90's and isn't it powerful what nostalgia is evoked? I was suddenly transported back to the black bin bags of games which Dad would bring up from the garage, like magnetic fishing, a random old Tiswas comic, boring F1 on in the background, Schumacher (in his pre skiing career) v Damon Hill, Murray Walker going mental, before Mum and Grandma call us through for the sherriest sherry trifle ever. After 10 mins with my knees at a weird angle to my body in a snug with a posh family, I realise the garden is my best bet, and the loos are out here anyway. My beer unconvincing, Ramsbury Deer Stalker giving me heartburn, quite fruity, but struggles late on. I'm much happier outside. Even with a pair of Villa & Barcelona supporting twilds playing an A-Z version of I-Spy with their Grandma whilst a loud Josh Widdicombe talks about mutant frogs and nights out in Oxford. When I return my glass, staff are so grateful, they wave me off from the door (sort of).
It is a 2pm, and the long trudge south to a former GBG 3pm opener should take an hour. Slathered in sun cream, bucket hat on (or was it one of my durags, I can't remember), water bottle tied to my hip like in a Spaghetti Western, off I set.
Gosh it is arduous in the heat (well, only 25 degrees but that's enough!). I can only be grateful I'm on a quiet road with minimal traffic, and the terrain is flat. To pass the time, I pretend I'm live streaming my walk, giving my (fake) followers a running commentary with lots of general BRAPA chat! I wonder in reality if anyone would tune in for such a thing?
No sign of life just gone 3pm at White Lion, Fewcott has me nervous. Eight days from now, it'd be bustling with beer festivallers. I go for a nervous wee on a country path behind the pub, returning just as a key rattles in the door. A New Zealander. Stacks up. I always find (and this includes my trip to Melbourne a few years back) antipodeans love a cheeky relaxed opening time. None of this British '3pm means 3pm nonsense'. He's surprised that I'm me. He saw my silhouette against the sun and thought I was the simpleton local farm boy who normally walks down at this time. The pub is very much a restaurant. But he is a good guy, despite not wanting to talk Shortland Street, Xena Warrior Princess or his pronunciation of fush and chups. I'm suddenly sweating profusely, like very profusely. Drip drip. All over floor and counter. He gives me kitchen roll. The cool temp inside has confused my body. He even allows me to temporarily stand inside the beer room (above ground cellar?) which is like a fridge. One ale on, from the Twisted Tree microbrewery on an obscure county lane near here. He notices before me that it is murky dross. So pulls me a fresh one. Far better. He keeps his cards very close to his chest when I mention the 2026 GBG .... "it is out soon, you've been in before, I wonder if you'll get in again?" Either he KNOWS they are, and is remaining secretive as he should, or he hasn't got a clue what I'm rabbiting on about. Wifey comes downstairs. Not NZ, but also lovely. She's in a flap. Their baby has pushed a button and unwittingly ramped up the air con to full heat upstairs! Naughty baby. Finally, the cavalry arrive in the form of a bunch of tropical shirted old lads. Not the type I'd have expected to see here, but walkable pub options are limited around here. They think my plan to walk to Stoke Lyne next is a bit crazy. But the most helpful, Shaun the Drummer, is friends with famous pub owner Mick the Hat, but isn't known for reliable opening hours, so Shaun rings him on my behalf to confirm 5pm is accurate, today at least. Time I was off.
The walk to Stoke Lyne is a bit of a headscratcher. The locals suggest I take a path cutting through Ardley Football Club but are vague when it comes to navigating a route across the M40 / A43 / Service Station so I charter my own route.
Unfortunately, the short opening stretch on the Ardley Road isn't pedestrian friendly. I do my best, but Friday rush hour doesn't help and one bald bastard even shakes his head judgily at me. Thankfully, it doesn't last long and soon I'm on farm tracks, clambering over gates, the last section is perhaps 'private land' but I avoid getting shot by farmers, cross a busy road, and straight up into Stoke Lyne. Whew! I REALLY must download that OS map app!
Nice church ....
Still not 5pm, so I sit on a grass verge, then hear a noise and find a local in red braces and a very rounded country accent sat outside. So we chat until rustling from within and Mick the Hat appears. Hurrah! "Not one, but TWO of you bloody mad enough to want to come here!" he says. Eccentric, perhaps a touch senile, I hear he's been guv'nor here longer than most pubs have been standing. And someone wrote to him once from Singapore. Envelope simply marked 'Mick the Hat' and it STILL reached the pub. So I was told. But before we're allowed inside, business to attend to. Red braces man has brought some garden chairs along, wants to know if Mick would like to take them off his hands. Mick struggles to open them and doesn't seem wholly convinced. I try not to look thirsty or impatient.
But finally, beer o'clock, 17:10 .....
And wow, what a time capsule Peyton Arms, Stoke Lyne (3292 / 5778) is. A cool ancient fustiness hits me as Mick scrambles around in the back and returns with pints of Hooky Bitter straight from the barrel. Cobwebs are my abiding memory of the place. Studiously uncleaned for centuries. The two old boys go back outside to make a final chair decision (it is a 'no'). Leaving me all alone in this amazing place, suspended in time. I peer at a spider in a stove pipe hat who asks me if the corn laws have been repealed yet. True BRAPA story. They return with a young woman. Ey up lads ya devils! Her husband left his sunglasses in here last week. Mick the Hat has a vague memory of putting them down 'somewhere'. Takes him about ten minutes to find them - secret hoarder? Or just a gloriously messy pub? I get chatting to our latest arrival, a lorry driver who's been fixing a boiler up near Malton. A lot of this pub's custom comes from lorry drivers who park up at the Services, cut through the gap in the fence, and walk up to Stoke Lyne. It was time I did that in reverse - maybe an A43/M40 crossing would become more obvious from this approach? What a pub experience though. I fear for its long term future though, so best enjoy it now if you've never been. Get someone to drive you though. The Anchor at Anchor (border of Mid Wales & Shropshire) is no more I've heard, that was a comparable pub though the Peyton is way better. A true 'hidden' gem too. None of this 'Bell, Aldworth' style bollocks where everyone actually knows it and has been but acts like they're bloody Roald Amundsen. I even receive a below average number of social media 'likes' on my post. Most tellingly, one Oxon bloke who was following my adventure, commenting on various pubs, says "sounds like I need to try this one!"
The first part of the walk back towards 'civilisation' went swimmingly, I even found the famed 'gap in the fence' leading to the lorry park. But I couldn't find anything remotely pedestrian friendly to negotiate the M40/A43 junction.
I ask the dullards in the Esso garage if they have a clue, but no. I am stuck. Uber? Do they even come out to motorway services? I stand by the charcoal briquettes and empty warm pasty cabinet and tap away at my phone. Pub ticking. Absolute mugs game. But to my immense relief, Mohammed answers the call as he so often does.
"Bet you were glad to see me!" he chirrups, "I was passing and thought 'someone's got themselves stranded ha ha ha!'"
When the initial euphoria of being 'saved' has died down and he tells me "only 12 more minutes now", I'm thinking 'what on earth route is he taking?'. Heyford looked pretty walkable from Fewcott / Ardley, why hasn't he just joined the A43, why's he gone all the way down via Middleton Stoney? Have I been duped? I check the cost. £31, WTF! Hadn't noticed in my earlier relief. Captive audience I guess. Who am I kidding? I was hardly gonna decline even if he'd chinged me £50! He's too busy telling me a story about his Dad naming all his kids 'Mohammed' as a practical joke for me to question it.
It was going to take a good pub not to fall into 'after the Lord Mayor's Show' territory after the wondrous Peyton Arms, but Barley Mow, Upper Heyford (3293 / 5779) was that pub. The sort of place where no one would think twice before putting their bare thigh in your face and shout from two yards "'AVIN' A GOOD DAY MATE!" Basic, community and quite farmhouse. Not the kind of pub where you can hide away with a quiet pint and reflect on the events of the last few hours. The Pride is drinking so well, it is the best quality beer today, and the lady who is moaning that Oxford's away game in Hull (wherever THAT is) has been moved to a Sunday so she can't go, is called over by Trev the Leg to assist me with the train times from nearby Heyford station (even though my phone tells me all I need to know, I don't tell him that, looks like he bites). Though I must confess I'd temporarily forgotten a station here exists. When the locals file outside as one to have a ciggie in a nicotine stained Heyford human centipede manoeuvre, a rare gap at the bar allows me to nip in for a second pint, to kill time before the train. "GOOD LUCK!" the pub shrieks as one when I depart, really top ballsy place.
It is getting late when I finally arrive back in Bicester. You can't do Heyford-Bicester direct if memory serves but since my Bristol epic, this mini holiday seems ages ago.
Gosh, was I really in Bicester earlier today? That disgusting Wetherspoons experience feels about five weeks ago.
Angel, Bicester (3294 / 5780) really is the 'after the Lord Mayor's Show' pub I knew today would bring eventually. Proper gloomy. For 9pm on a Friday evening, it is solely populated by lone blokes dotted around staring into the middle distance like shit theatrical ghosts. I suppose it is a worthy boozer in some respects, it has the Everitt family kitchen chairs from our 1980's Saffron Walden home. A low ceiling, and decent beams. I've chosen one of those 'Dead Brewers Society' beers which is always like putting your hand into a lucky dip bucket containing black widow spiders and kittens. This pale ale is fruity, but burns your throat as it goes down and has the 'mouthfeel' of a circus knife swallowing.
Another unnecessarily long walk back to Bicester station for the train to Banbury, and there we have it, that was an insane BRAPA day ..... but I got done what I'd set out to.
My reward is that I get to do it all again tomorrow because the pubs north of Banbury didn't look much kinder, in terms of location!
Might be back with you Thursday for that one, unless the new 'GBG' drops unexpectedly early, then it is all hands on cross-ticking deck.
Sweet dreams, Si
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